Since I received a concussion courtesy of a lax co-worker the Monday before I was supposed to depart, I was instructed to visit my family doctor, Dr. Chung, for a check-up regarding whether or not I could be able to work and travel to Mexico. At 2:18, I stepped through the doctor's office doors, timidly explained my situation to the secretary, and plopped myself down in one of those straight-backed chairs that made up the waiting room, popped open my cell phone, and started playing a little Papi-Jump.
An older gentleman and his older woman companion proceeded to discuss why my generation in all its youthful glory were single handedly responsible for the downfall of this country and it’s national system. They proceeded to even accuse Bill Gates of being the mastermind behind ‘inherent laziness’ and referred to us all as a bunch of slackers.
I had no idea I was such a terrible influence on older generations.
The fun didn’t stop there: When I actually got into the Doctor’s office, to do a follow up on a hard knock to the head I received on Monday, courtesy of a co-worker from Scandinavia or somewhere – he interrupted my story of pain and woe with a simple request.
“Stand up!” He barked at me, in a hoarse, heavy Chinese accent.
I stood.
“Do jumping jack!” He barked again. I’ve seen Full Metal Jacket, and was instantly reminded of the squad forced to do a routine exercises in the pouring rain while an older man barked orders and flapped his arms.
With this slightly hilarious image in mind, I did a half-hearted jumping jack and sat down cautiously, poised and ready should my ability to exercise at the drop of a hat be called upon once more.
He thanked me profusely, not noticing how my arms were braced on my chair and the slightly goofy smile that spread across my lips.
“It has been three days. Concussion Monday, come to me Thursday. You do not badly. Go rest.”
I nodded, thoroughly confused, and walked out of the office a happy man.
The next thing on my list of things to do pre-Mexico was get a haircut. If you’ve seen me pre-mexico haircut, then you know my dilemma. If you didn’t see me, my hair is an explosive forest that was influenced by radiation poisoning. Curly brown locks that twist and turn like the Autoban. My hair, in short, is messy.
Right across from the Doctor’s office where the elderly insult the youth that will take over from them, there’s a little corner-tucked hairdressers. It makes me smile every time I walk past it. It looks like a small, meek little shop, holding a sling, while Goliath (Wild Wings) hulks above it with it’s bright sign and fancy service and multiple doorways. Great clips has one doorway. It needs no other.
When I entered, I was greeted in the most enthusiastically unenthusiastic way I’ve ever experienced. The lady had long manicured nails, a beehive haircut, and was chewing bright pink bubblegum, and responded to my entrance as if she genuinely enjoyed being miserable.
“Welcome to Great Clips,” She said, sighing the words out as if a giant weight were on her shoulders, “I’ll be with you in a moment.”
If this robotic voice wasn’t going to convince me to throw money in the air and do a tapdance around the shop, I don’t know what is.
I cautiously took a seat in one of those hugely uncomfortable torture devices that hairdressers have the gall to call ‘chairs’ nowadays. Shifting and sliding around on numb butt cheeks, I tapped fingers against my chin, the picture of a nervous teenager unsure about someone taking sharp metallic objects near his skull.
A woman, chubby and blonde, approached the desk. She stared at me.
I stared back.
Eventually, she spread her arms. “What’s your phone number?”
I stammered and stuttered through my number, not exactly expecting the sudden ‘warm’ conversation from this woman. After a strange mix-up in which she confused me for my dad, I finally was able to be led to a man who was the chosen one to flip around sharp objects near my brain chamber.
When I let it slip that I was going to the promised land down south, his eyes got really frat-boy big and he excitedly prattled off all of the things that I’ll just love about Mexico.
I barely got the words; "Mission's trip" "church group" and "humanitarian" before he started prattling on about the gorgeous babes and the wonderful women and the use of condoms and the Mexican mafia. He told me how all Mexicans hate Canadians, especially, and while he was speaking, he was quietly praising his own work.
Example: "Yeah, so when you're down there - man, this is a good blend - make sure to blah blee bloo blee blaap." Etc, etc.
After he was done threatening my life with metal instruments, he then rotated my chair, electing me to hold the mirror awkwardly while he claimed his work was the greatest hair cut of all time. He then went on to say that in Mexico, they don't cut hair like this. In fact, they barely cut hair at all.
Never in my life have I ever met a man who loved hair as much as this individual. This individual would probably elope with hair, if given half an option.
Regardless, I gave him five bucks and exited the creepy-cereal-killer salon, and stood on the curb, my cell phone ringing and the wind ruffling through what little tufts of black locks I had left. Sure, I didn't look as good as I thought I would. Sure I was kind of let down at the advice of my family doctor. But you know what? It didn't matter.
I was going to Mexico.
-Chicago Ted
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